


Of Matching Shirts and Spilled Condiments

by ElizaPembroke



Series: Scenes from a Marriage [2]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bipolar Disorder, Depression, Domestic Bliss, M/M, Post-Season/Series 10, uncle Mickey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-14
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-07 07:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26469607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElizaPembroke/pseuds/ElizaPembroke
Summary: Ian has a depressive episode, which leads to Mickey having to deal with past implications and the Gallaghers abound.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich, Mickey Milkovich & Sandy Milkovich, Mickey Milkovich & The Gallaghers
Series: Scenes from a Marriage [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1914664
Comments: 21
Kudos: 418





	Of Matching Shirts and Spilled Condiments

**Author's Note:**

> A slight change of tone from the first part. This one starts at its darkest and slowly works into its happiest, I promise you. Warnings for some self-deprecating thoughts.

It doesn’t really matter if they fight before they go to bed or if they end the day with a round or two of fucking – hell, some nights they manage to do both – because they always wake up in a tight embrace.

Which is why they both know there is a reason to worry when it’s different one day.

It’s Ian who’s turned away from Mickey, facing the wall, cocooned in the comforter in a way that it securely covers the lower part of his body and even most of his shoulders and head.

He’s been like that since early morning when he woke up to that familiar feeling of heaviness settling in his joints, which made even the tiniest press of Mickey’s body seem overwhelming.

It’s the moment _he_ wakes up that Ian dreads the most. When he wakes up and sees him like that, has to deal with him like that, again. Ian so wishes he wouldn’t have to. Not now, not yet.

They’ve only been married for a little over a month. It’s just plain unfair. The honeymoon phase should’ve taken longer.

They should’ve had more time.

He wills his body to move, but it feels like it only sinks deeper into the mattress, which is slowly enveloping him, swallowing him up into its midst. It’s so hot, Ian thinks he’s burning from the inside.

And he’s tired, _so tired_.

But he doesn’t sleep. At least he thinks he doesn’t because he doesn’t feel any more rested when he opens his eyes next.

His limbs are made of burned clay, so rigid and delicate at the same time, and if he moves them just a bit, they’ll break. Ian’s sure of it.

Even his mind refuses to work at its normal speed, and the thought alone seems to take him a whole eternity.

What a loser he is. What a waste of space. Good only to hurt others.

So, he just hides under the comforter, desperately hoping it’ll make him invisible – until he feels better, until he’s himself again – and waits for the unmistakable dip and creak of the bed behind him.

\---

Mickey feels something’s wrong even before he opens his eyes. Call it instinct, or maybe just habit, but he wakes up colder than usual.

He rolls over on the spot, rubbing the sleep out of his face, when he notices Ian, or rather the pile of linen with tufts of red hair sticking out of it lying all the way on the other side of their bed.

He immediately recognizes what it means, and the implications follow.

And really, he should know better than to allow himself such thoughts, but a flash of panic passes through him, which makes him think of the similar cold of his old marital bed and the 17-year-old boy in it, and the way he refused to leave it for days and had Mickey scared shitless.

It makes him think of stolen babies and pornos and vacant stares in the mental hospital, and in that split second, he relives those moments all at once, the pain from them that he buried deep inside him all those years ago.

With a hard swallow, he tries to push them back before they spill out of him and make an unnecessary mess.

“Ian?” he asks in a soft whisper, mentally bracing himself for impact with impenetrable walls.

His hand is hovering over Ian’s shoulder when he hears him speak, voice small and hoarse.

“’m sorry.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it,” Mickey replies quickly. “You just–you just try and get some rest, okay? I’ll be back in a sec.”

He grabs his cigarettes from the back pocket of his discarded jeans and all but runs into the bathroom, turning in the doorway for one final look at Ian’s unmoving form.

\---

Staring at himself in the mirror, he takes several deep breaths through his nose. He’s trying to convince himself that he’s not having a panic attack by thinking that panic attacks are only for pussies.

“Fuck this.”

He pushes down the lid on the toilet and sits on it as he lights a cigarette, taking long and desperate drags from it.

With his eyes closed, he leans his arm on the sink, rubbing his thumb’s knuckle over his eyebrows. As his breathing calms, he tries to remind himself of one simple truth: That was then, and this is now.

So much has happened in between that it could never go back to how it was. In any way. And these things, even though in their essence very much _not fine_ , are actually fine. They’re a part of Ian, a part of their life.

However sad or infuriating, they’re their normal. And they’ll be fine.

But his quiet moment of introspection doesn’t last for long. Because suddenly, someone tries to open the door and, finding it locked, resorts to banging on it.

“Come on, I need to take a leak!” Carl shouts through the door and his own insistent bangs.

“Yea, yea, hold your fuckin’ horses,” Mickey snaps back, reluctantly finishing his cigarette by dumping the stub in the toilet and flushing it.

He opens the door to Carl comically side-stepping in front of it.

“You know there’s a bathroom downstairs, right?” Mickey tells him with a smirk.

“Yeah, whatever,” Carl murmurs as he nudges past him. He stops in his tracks when the smell of smoke finally hits him. “Dude, what the fuck!”

As a sort of a reply, Mickey kicks the bathroom door shut behind him.

When he steps back into the bedroom, he finds Franny standing in front of their bed, watching her uncle’s back with quiet curiosity. Lately, he’s been her favorite to help her get ready in the morning.

Mickey stops behind her, crouching down to talk to her in one of the gentler tones he has reserved for her.

“Why don’t I get you ready today, Little Red, huh? What do you say we let Uncle Ian sleep for a bit longer? Come on,” he says as he lifts her up, grunting a little at the unexpected strain. “Shit, you’re heavier than you look, kid.”

\---

“Hey. Ian not up yet?”

Lip barges into the kitchen through the back door just as Mickey finishes his phone call. He moves past him to pour himself a cup of coffee.

“Uh, no. He’s not feeling well,” Mickey responds, the admission heavy on his tongue.

Lip turns to him and, finding whatever he does on Mickey’s face, deadpans. “Shit, you mean–?”

“Yea. At least I think so. I dunno. Sure fuckin’ looks like it.”

Lip nods. “You know what could’ve triggered it?”

Mickey’s fingers start nervously tapping onto the sides of his phone.

“He got a new prescription a few days ago, I think. Seemed a bit low the past couple of days.” He clears his throat. “I should’ve seen it.”

“No, that’s good, actually.” Lip smiles somewhat tentatively. “It’s probably just that. He’ll sleep it off and be back to his bouncy, annoying self in no time.”

“Yea.”

“Mick,” Lip insists. “He’s gonna be fine.”

Mickey bites on the inside of his mouth so hard he thinks he tastes blood.

“It’s just– I don’t– I wanna–“ He sighs, not really sure how to say it.

It seems clear enough for Lip.

“I know,” he says. “Me too.”

As sincere as the moment feels, the meaningful silence they’re sharing is turning too sappy for Mickey’s liking by the second. And Lip probably realizes it also, which is why he breaks it by turning to the kitchen table.

He nearly bursts out laughing when he sees Franny sitting there eating her breakfast.

“Jesus. There a twin parade somewhere?”

And okay, yeah, her rolled-up plaid shirt, dark jeans, and boots combo _might_ look strikingly similar to what Mickey typically wears. Thankfully, he’s still in his tank top and boxers, so it’s not _that_ obvious.

He might be lying a little when he replies: “She almost started crying when she begged me to wear that shit.”

Lip narrows his eyes at him. “And the tough and scary Mickey Milkovich can’t deal with small girls trying to manipulate him?”

“Fuck off.”

\---

“ _Ian_.”

Mickey scoots a little closer to his husband’s back as he lightly touches his shoulder. He’s already in his work uniform and ready to leave.

“I called your work. Told them you weren’t coming today, so you don’t have to worry about it. Sandy’s watching the kids. She’s gonna call me if you need anything, and I’ll come home, alright?” he says, not really expecting a reaction. “Get some sleep.”

He pats his shoulder again, this time letting the touch linger.

“Love you,” Ian tells him in one short exhale.

Mickey leans forward to place a gentle kiss on his temple, whispering into his hair, “Love you, too.”

\---

It’s a downright field day for the shoplifters at the Jeffery Plaza’s electronics store because its security guard’s mind keeps wandering away from keeping their thieving tendencies in check.

Mickey says his most sincere _have a good day_ toward the leaving pair of shoppers before he turns away to sneak a peek at the phone that he keeps in the side pocket of his black pants.

The uniform here is a definite step-up from the last gig his parole officer Larry got for him. He gets to wear a white shirt and actual pants that go below his calves, which really helps to keep his dignity intact.

The phone informs him he has no new messages, just like only five minutes before that.

\---

During his lunch break, he’s about halfway through mechanically chewing his sub sandwich when he realizes he’s not actually hungry. He gets up to chuck the rest of it in the trash and call Sandy.

“Yo. Has Ian come down yet?” he asks as soon as she picks up.

Sandy looks past his non-greeting with an amused huff. “Haven’t heard a peep from him all morning.”

“Shit.”

As he makes his way through the mall’s food court, he hears the TV running and Franny cheerfully repeating the word _peep peep peep_ on the other side of the phone.

“Would you like me to go up and check on him?” Sandy continues when he doesn’t say anything.

“Yes? No? I don’t fuckin’ know.”

She chuckles. “Well, you’re the expert here.”

He feels a bit stupid hearing that. Because he is the main person who should by now know what to do. Something better than to freak the fuck out and twiddle his thumbs like a useless prick.

“Feeling seriously out of my fuckin’ depth right now,” he admits with a sigh.

A pause, followed by a _hmm_.

“Wanna know what I think?”

Mickey massages his temples. “Sure.”

“I think the best we can do right now is give him space to rest. Especially me. I’m like one of his least favorite people even when he doesn’t have to go through the shit that he does now.”

“Right.”

“See?” she says, too proud of her advice. “Now stop worrying and get back to work, asshole. He’s gonna be fine.”

And probably, he really is overreacting. Because it’s not like this automatically means the past is set to repeat itself. He’s not going anywhere, Ian’s not going anywhere. They’re not going to –

“That’s what everyone keeps telling me,” he tells her to interrupt his own thoughts.

“Then it must be true,” Sandy replies. “It’s not like anyone here would go out of their ways to spare your feelings.”

Mickey has to give her that. He says bye and ends the call.

He’s about to head back to the store, making a – he supposes – too sudden a turn on his heal when his chest makes contact with some guy’s tray.

It’s just about his luck that it’s full of food.

“You’ve got to be fuckin’ kiddin’ me, man,” he complains, looking down on his shirt at the wild mixture of stains, comprised mostly of barbeque sauce, cheese, streaks of grease, and a small amount of chocolate milkshake.

“Jeez! So-sorry, dude. Here, le-lemme –” the guy stumbles over his words, hurriedly dabbing a napkin on Mickey’s formerly white uniform, as if that wouldn’t only make more of a mess.

He’s quite in shape and has about a foot on Mickey, but still shakes like a scared puppy under his hard stare.

“Think you’ve done enough, Jackson Pollock. Thanks a lot,” Mickey replies harshly, swatting at his hand.

As he storms off, he flicks away the single slice of pickle that sticks to his shirt.

\---

Later that afternoon, after his shift, which he leaves in record time, he may or may not sprint back home from the L.

“Why are you out of breath?” Liam greets him from where he’s sitting on the floor in front of the TV.

“Didya run here, ya big softy?” Sandy follows, an expression of absolute glee taking over her whole face.

Mickey scoffs. “No. Mind ya own goddamn business.”

As he takes off his coat and hat, wiping off the sweat on his forehead, he notices Franny watching him silently from behind the big sofa cushion. He sticks out his tongue at her, which doesn’t seem to faze her at all.

“Why’s she wearing that?” Mickey asks when he realizes that she’s not in the plaid shirt from this morning. He cringes at the smiling snowman on her blue T-shirt.

“She got chocolate syrup all over the shirt after lunch. Cried for like an hour after I finally got her to change,” Sandy explains.

“Is that right?” Mickey opens the zipper on his hoodie to show Franny the dried stains on his uniform. “Well, you and me both, kid.”

She howls with laughter. It makes him reciprocate with a low chuckle.

Sandy catches his attention with a wide-eyed, meaningful look, and a couple of head jerks toward the other room.

“Ian,” she mouths. “Kitchen.”

\---

Mickey finds him in his PJs, leaning on the counter next to the sink and taking small gulps from a glass of water.

“Hey,” Mickey starts, his voice giving away his surprise.

“Hey.”

“How’re you feelin’?”

Ian offers him a tired smile. “Better.”

Mickey’s mentally debating taking the few remaining steps and hugging him when a small person tugs at his pants.

„Sandy said I could get a juice box,” Franny tells him, prompting him to shake off his hesitation and grab an apple juice box from the fridge with a murmured _sure, yea, here ya go_. He punctures its seal with the straw’s pointy end before giving it to her.

As he watches her leave, he feels the heavy thud of Ian’s head as it lands on his shoulder. The next thing he knows, he’s being tightly encircled from behind by a pair of freckly arms. He immediately grips back at them.

“You shouldn’t’ve worried about me,” Ian notes with his mouth close to Mickey’s ear.

“Wasn’t worried.”

“I heard you calling Sandy all day.”

Mickey sighs. Busted.

“It’s your health, man.” He rubs his hands up and down Ian’s forearms. They feel a little too hot. “I’m pro’bly always gonna worry about that.”

“Okay. But it’s just that, right? It’s not –?“

He doesn’t say, but he also doesn’t need to. Mickey knows there’s a whole list of things left unsaid in that question that he doesn’t want to think about, really _wasn’t_ even thinking about until then.

“Nah. I ain’t worried about anything else,” he answers, and it’s the truth, for the most part.

Just as there’s always going to be a small piece of him worrying, there’s also going to be a dark sliver of him doubting.

“Good.”

Ian drops his head down again, this time to take a deep inhale of Mickey in the crook of his neck.

“You smell like fries and barbeque sauce,” he announces, confused. 

“Some asshole threw his whole menu number four on me during my break,” Mickey grunts, easing their hands so that Ian can see the mess on his chest.

“Shit. Nice,” Ian snorts. “Gonna be a bitch to wash out. Glad I’m not the one doing it.”

Mickey fakes a laugh and tugs at Ian’s hands. “Okay, Chuckles, get the fuck off me. You’re like a walking furnace.”

Taking his glass from the counter, Ian makes his way back upstairs. “You know, fries don’t sound like a bad idea. For dinner,” he proposes, shooting Mickey a grin when he reaches the third step.

“Fuck you,” Mickey says and, seeing he’s actually serious, continues: “Want me to make some? You gonna eat?”

The cheeky fucker smirks. “How could I resist now?”

Yeah, Mickey thinks. Ian’s gonna be fine.

They’re gonna be fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me at [abundanceofnots](https://abundanceofnots.tumblr.com/).


End file.
